GL3 Stat-Tracker: Sci-Fi Edition

Commander Reno Clio

Space Captain

Weapons: Authority, Awesome lasers

Allegiance: The Alliance 

Coordinates: Punched-in

 Space Driving: Circuitous

Diet: Narrow-minded. There are a lot of tasty aliens out there.

Special Ability: Avoiding Enemy Lasers Until A Critical Moment In The Plot

Chief Isaac Mobo

Engineer

Weapons: Mining Equipment, Mobile Turret, Tech Support

Allegiance: Windows

Career Choice: Unpopular

Memory: Upgraded

Star Sign: RAM

Special Ability: Turning It Off And On Again

Dr Strangerlove

Zeno-Geologist

Weapons: Again, really?

Allegiance: SCIENCE

Specialization: Earth Oil
Relationships: Rocky

Usefulness: Deluded

Special Ability: Methodical Research

Darf Zen

Dark Space Wizard

Weapons: Purple Lightning, what else do you need?

Allegiance: Whoever he likes, he's a fucking Space Wizard

Philosophy: Awesomely deranged

Dress Sense: Ditto

Sex Life: Risky

Special Ability: Choking You With His Mind If He Gets Bored Of Electrocution

InEBr1-AtD 22

Malfunctioning Droid (on the right)

Weapons: Lost Portal Gun, Awkwardness

Allegiance: Cake or, if pushed, any form of confectionery

Thinking: Rarely lateral

Motor Skills: Fucked

Bromance Receptors: Overloading 

Special Ability: An Ironic Degree Of Willpower

Things Regular Sport Could Learn From MMA

There's a reason the social pole is slippery. And you find out pretty early on in your school career that it's because it's been greased by the sweaty taint of sportsmen who got up there before you. But nerds are destined to inherit the earth - as technology marches onward through this information age, there will come a time when knowing how to farm experience points with maximum efficiency will be a more applicable life skill than being able to score trys or touchdowns or whatever. And I've decided to help this process along. By accelerating that precious moment when we, the doughy, weezing, Pop Tart repositories of the human race make our glorious ascent to supreme power. Which could be done pretty easily if the most influential dignitaries of the most popular sports in the western world, took a few cues from the MMA community.

***

MMA stands for Mixed Martial Arts, a full contact bloodsport with a history of hilarity. I say history, but it's only really been going since 1993 when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was founded, but in that short time, the sport has racked up a record of shattered dreams and brain damage that's never been equaled. I've never even watched a complete match, being content to watch or read about the highlights of historic moments and my God there are so many. From taped-up faces to emotional breakdowns, MMA takes everything you love about regular sports, pumps it full of untested steroids and throws it in a ring with a gorilla. People like FIFA need to learn from this. Because if every sport started taking this reckless approach to the value of human faces, we nerds would be running the world within a month. 

Sportsmen have a reputation for bullying, thanks to spectacles of disappointment like Footloose and other 80s High School movies. But they're all pussies really. Cricketers run screaming for cover when it starts to rain and won't stand in the path of the ball unless they're covered from head to toe in body armour. Boxing, generally accepted by people unaware of the existence of MMA to be the most savage of legally sanctioned sports is just two professional dietitians gently slapping each other until one of them remembers when he was paid to fall down. Not to say that you don't get boring matches in MMA. Fighters run away, endlessly circle each other, throw punches with all the excitement of a bored receptionist hitting refresh on her Twitter feed, or just lie down in the ring together to have a bit of a cuddle. Except that last one is kind of meant to happen. See, MMA is, supposedly, a descendant of Pankration. The Greek martial art which combined punching with wrestling in an oily tangle of man parts.

It sounds like bullshit when you consider that it's mixed martial arts, fighters square off against people with completely different fighting styles - Jiu Jitsu, Karate, Muay Thai, but generally, the more clinically batshit insane guys (that's most of them by the way) just make up their own name for what essentially is Pankration with slightly more clothing. Slightly. 

Don't tell me you looked at that and didn't instinctively want to give them some privacy.

How many other sports can claim such distinguished Classical ancestry? Fucking Alexander the Great enjoyed a roll in the grass with an opponent from time to time. And he kicked ass at Pankration. Fine. That was pretty weak. Point is, you're not getting into that ring if you have a chronic aversion to forcible male bonding. Unless you're this guy. Thing is, most sportsmen are that guy. They're rippling sacks of emotional issues of which homophobia isn't even in the top 5. Your average boxer wouldn't step in the ring against a real mixed martial artist. It wouldn't matter how much money you offered to have his ass handed to him. He's not going to get groped by another man in front of an audience of screaming drunks 'like some kind of fag.'

So we've established that if more sports involved some Ancient Greek manhandling most jocks would defect to us. Maybe we'll let them live. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. How do we get shot of the rest of those aggravatingly sculpted athletes? Easily. That's how. All we'd have to do is throw them, one at a time, into a cage with this monster. Or this one. Or if you're feeling really sadistic, this one. MMA isn't just a competition to see which of two men is more adept at tantric massage, it's also a grand exhibition of the human form. And how quickly it can be liquefied by a kickboxer that's more cyborg than man. 

You could play full-contact Rugby for your whole life and not receive a tenth of the physical punishment some unlucky souls get during one fight. The fighters with long careers only survive them if, like Ernesto Hoost they've got a solid enough defense to not get pounded within an inch of their lives every match or, like Kazuyuki Fujita, are simply unkillable. Most of the latter breed of fighters are Polynesian, which, in MMA, is kind of like being a bulletproof road-sign in Alabama. And even these guys get smashed open like so many uncooperative walnuts by men with nuclear-powered pile drivers for limbs. That guy Fujita, managed to maintain a career with one very specific gameplan in mind: letting the dishonourable foreigner in front of him unload on his face until they got tired and fell over when he pawed at them. That's not a joke. During Fujita's fifth fight, his opponent Ken Shamrock had a heart attack because he'd been pounding on Fujita so hard. And you thought The Simpsons came up with that.

If every sport was like MMA, those people that laughed at your pathetic attempt at the sit-ups your bitch P.E. teacher forced you to do, would destroy themselves. We wouldn't even need that virus that kills anything with a BMI in the 'Good' section that we engineered while they thought we were playing World of Warcraft. 

BUT WHAT CAN THEY DO ABOUT IT NOW? NOW IS OUR TIME. 

Jukebox: Tracks of 2011

Another year, another list. As 2011 draws to a close, it's time again to take a look back at the tracks that really stood out from the masses. And here they are. 

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Labrinth – Earthquake (feat. Tinie Tempah)

In terms of mindless, unassuming fun, nobody produced a polished urban pop hit of the same magnitude as Labrinth this year. On a meaty set of speakers, Earthquake really will make the planet shake. Probably the best club hit in recent memory, the chances that you haven't heard this are slimmer than Kyle Falconer's jeans.

Listen here.

Jay-Z & Kanye West - Gotta Have It

The most surprising thing about Watch the Throne is that it took this long to happen. The men are like peanut butter and jam, gin and tonic, or hookers and cocaine - they just belong together. They share this contradictory attitude to material wealth which borders on the ridiculous. Being equally happy to spend tens of thousands of dollars on a sample, and then spend four minutes rapping over it about the simple lives they want for their children (New Day); right after this punchy number, smacks of the kind of narcissism that's usually impossible to stomach. Gotta Have It is violently selfish. In it, J and K manage to transcend consumerism, operating with this impossible, almost imperialistic need to drink the world dry. Galactus listens to this song and feels like an altruist.

Listen here.

Friendly Fires - Helpless

Friendly Fires have made larger strides in pop than most, but took quite a risk with their sophomore album, Pala. Their self-titled debut was glorious, for the most part, thanks to vocalist Ed MacFarlane's rousing voice, but also for the hints of exoticism tucked beneath the songwriting. Taking those undertones, and basically constructing a whole LP from them was brave, and brilliant. Again, mostly. Helpless is actually the exception, bar a few bars at the end, being mostly concerned with crooning 'helpless' over a rent-a-synth chorus. In the best possible way. 

Listen here.

Rizzle Kicks - Dreamers

Starting up the debut from Brit-hop duo Rizzle Kicks, you wouldn't be clinically deranged to assume their defining thought in the studio was, 'Cat Empire are cool, let's do something exactly like that'. But then album opener Dreamers fizzles out in a flash of ecstatic, jazzed-up beat wizardry, and they delve into literally everything else. Sure it's hip-hop, but there's such a wide-eyed approach to backing in Stereotypical that it's hard to care about their lyrics, which are suitably inane. Never has so much fun been had by so few.

Listen here.

Lana Del Rey - Video Games

As an entirely label-moulded personality, Lana is quite unique. Styled as a pin-up beauty with a baroque pop sound, there's a charm to her whole act which really sets her apart. And there's no doubt she's got the voice to match it, Video Games is an powerful ode to devotion, channeling the essence of Americana and a demanding need to be loved. 

Listen here.

Theophilus London – Love Is Real

Theophilus has become the latest poster boy of Brooklyn hipster-hop. With an interest bordering on obsession with The Smiths, he ticks all the right genre-bending boxes, and his first real LP (Timez Are Weird There Days) after a multitude of mixtapes has become a bit of a Music section favourite at Redbrick this year. We’re still waiting on a collaboration with Nicki Minaj to make all our pipedreams come true though, Theo. Just sayin'. 

Listen here.

Washed Out – Amor Fati

2011 was the year chillwave died. Toro Y Moi went all disco on us, Neon Indian’s sophomore LP didn’t emerge, and Ernest Greene, aka, Washed Out, decided he’d rather write songs about the politics of love than getting high on a sunny day. His debut Within and Without is still astonishingly lovely, like a slowed down, synth-heavy cutting from Bloc Party’s Intimacy, but it’s got that all-important soothing influence that made the Life of Leisure and High Times EPs such a joy.
Listen here.

Active Child – You Are All I See

I can’t recommend Active Child enough. I’m In Your Church At Night was one of the sleeper-hits of last year, and his unique formula of choral synth-pop is all the more refined on his debut of this year. Its titular opener You Are All I See is a thing of wondrous beauty. There’s something deeply touching about it, but at the same time, with it's heartwarming harps and raining bells, it's distinctly festive.

Listen here.

Jukebox: 5 Songs I'm Ashamed To Love

As long as there has been music in material form, there has been The Shuffle of Shame. Finding the wrong record in someone's collection can be as horrifying as finding 'monkey' bones in their basement. So in the spirit of openness and public humiliation, here are five songs I am utterly ashamed to admit that I adore. 

***

Avenged Sevenfold – Sidewinder

My metal phase was already cresting when I came across City of Evil, but it reinvigorated the genre for at least a few more months. M. Shadows and co rocked so hard during their brief career that the few remaining brain cells I have that actually survived Avenged’s debut album flinch every time someone says 'Bat Country'. Sidewinder is a more abstract shock to the system, with a Guns & Roses meets Ennio Morricone sound but like the rest of the record it serves double duty in terms of guilty reminders - bringing up bad memories of questionable fashion decisions as well as shoulder-length beatnik hair. 

Genki Rockets – I Will

As far as J-Pop goes, Genki Rockets aren’t the most heinous band out there, although that is a lot like saying a horny tiger isn’t the worst thing you could find in your bathroom in the morning. Some of the most terrible crimes in music were committed when Japanese hands touched synthesisers. That’s not going to stop me loving this song, but I question my sanity when I sing along to it in public. The lyrics are so detestable sickly-sweet that listening to I Will comes with a severe risk of all your teeth falling out. ‘Unicorns unite’? Why do I do this to myself? 

Madonna – Beautiful Stranger

Madonna is to a heterosexual what ethnic food is to Mel Gibson. It's just confusing when when you find the two together. And there is no way to justify liking Madonna other than her actual music. Straight men have no problem admitting they love girly pop stars, if they're attractive. It's a perfectly functional excuse to say you love Pixie Lott, if the confession comes with the addendum: I would plough her 'til next July. But Madonna doesn't have any sex appeal anymore. She's a terrible testament to what centuries of Pilates and contortionism can do to the human body. Plus, she was alive and sexually active during the eighties. To the vagina, that's kind of like being Vietnamese during the sixties. She's taken such a literal pounding that she probably can't piss without a funnel.

Chamillionaire – Ridin’

Chamillionaire has as much credibility in the hip-hop community as James Blunt. And I’m qualified to say that - I’m whiter than Larry King eating wonder bread. Liking this song is humiliating for so many reasons and the worst of which isn’t even Krayzie Bone sounding like he had a stroke halfway through his verse. No, it’s Weird Al Yankovich’s fault.  His White & Nerdy parody destroyed its inspiration so utterly that I can’t even listen to the original without picturing an angular beanpole-human hybrid playing with Star Wars figurines. And when someone can make that sound tougher than your verse about absent-mindedly firing a handgun into the air, it might be time to give up rap and try your hand at ballet again. Chamillionaire clutches his purse tighter when he walks past Barack Obama. REAL TALK.

Britney Spears – Toxic

I’m so sorry.

***

William feels like Lindsey Lohan, as in, filled with hot, white shame. You can compound this through the medium of Facebook, follow him on Twitter or read the adulterated version of this article when it's posted on the Redbrick Website on Friday.

4 Things That Are Criminally Wrong With Star Wars

Star Wars kicks so much ass its genre technically counts as 'Shattered Pelvic Bone'. Glorified Space monks parade around a galaxy in shiny starships that mock the laws of physics and fight robots with laser swords. But, fantasising about such an awesome universe enough is bound to lead to some problems. Mostly social ones, but that's not why we're here. No, escapism comes at a price, and that price is noticing plot holes you could drive an AT-AT through. Nerds get riled up by canonical inconsistencies, so after I spat in the faces of peaceful nerds everywhere when I foolishly attempted something as heretical as suggesting ways in which Harry Potter could be improved, I can honestly say that I wasn't prepared for the monumental backlash it would incite. That's right, there wasn't a single vitriolic comment. Wrong move, internet. Because now I'm back with some rude things to say about something no-one has ever said anything rude about. And not just the prequel trilogy either. On a side note, The Old Republic looks bloody brilliant. 

***

George Lucas' Casting Strategy


If you'll permit me, dear hypothetical reader, I'd like to tell you a story. It's a story of perseverance, of personal faith, and the extraordinary machinations of fate. It is the story, of Harrison Ford's early career. He arrived in Los Angeles a mere boy of 22, but would leave a man, although I think he still lives there. Young Harrison came, like many others, with a hope in his heart, a nonexistent dime in his pocket, and an unquenchable thirst for success in his loins. Unfortunately, nine years later, he was still doing bit roles for bit projects. His biography is suspiciously quiet over whether he was forced to involve himself in pornography in order to pay the bills, so I'm forced to assume that he was. His time as a fluffer would be short though, for he was eventually hired by George Lucas to build him some cabinets. Because there's nothing like a career in porno to qualify you to work with wood.

I'd like to thank my time in Year 4 for that joke.

You can probably guess the next bit, in a spectacular display of nepotism/tight-fisted-ness, Lucas hired Ford to play Han Solo. Now, let's look at this like reasonable, semi-sober adults. If you were the right-hand man of a powerful authority figure, let's say a dictator, and he asked you (in the tongue of The Beast) to find him a new anger management therapist, and you gave the job to your plumber, how fucking dead would you be?


Obi-Wan Kenobi is a moron

You have to admire the balls of Obi-Wan Kenobi. He took on an apprentice he didn't necessarily believe in, out of respect for his late teacher, he spearheaded the war against the Separatist horde, he proved himself a wise, powerful Jedi whose last act was to ensure the defeat of all evil in the Galaxy. He truly lived. It's such a shame then, that for the most part, he lived like his mother just couldn't keep her hands off the Space Tequila when she was pregnant with him.

Here is a man with the Nobel-prize-worthy idea of going into hiding at the end of Episode 3, when the entire might of the newborn Empire was united in the effort of tracking his ass down and destroying him, but doesn't think to change his surname. Was the Emperor such a laid back, informal chap that he only knew Obi by his first name? Only changing his first name to Ben shouldn't have throw a toddler off the scent. I'd love to blame the Empire, with its nearly limitless resources mind you, for taking twenty years to find someone stupid enough to think growing a beard and hiding in a cave counted as keeping a low profile, but the sheer idiocy of Kenobi prevents me. He doesn't even think to alter his dress sense for fuck's sake. How many other people in the Star Wars universe were still wearing filthy hobo-robes by Episode 4? Sticking a photo of him to a lampost or behind the counter at the local Tatooine supermarket would have been enough for everyone on the planet to find him. He probably got a fake Starship Driver's License in the name of McLovin.

After a few decades probably spent drinking Space White Lightning and begging for Space change, the mysterious, enigmatic, (sigh) 'Ben' Kenobi is finally discovered. In the Empire's base of military operations. And then he doesn't even have the good sense to die properly, instead opting to vanish (maybe?), leaving Vader to poke ruefully at his (probably) soiled robe, looking stupid.

Goddamn it, Kenobi.

It's something of a tragedy that the character is actually less hateable in the prequel trilogy. And that's mostly thanks to Ewan McGregor's winning smile. He's still unsafely stupid though. In Episode 3, he jumps into a pile of battle droids just to say hello. Adam West watches that scene and laughs at Ewan's inability to bring drama to the situation. Of course, Kenobi's greatest fuck-up in the prequel trilogy is allowing Anakin to turn to the Dark Side. But in fairness to him, it would have been pretty incredible to foresee Annie doing something so predictable after spending the previous film doing so much crazy.

All the (let's call it unintentional) Racism


In Episode 1, we were introduced to Watto. He's a creepy, probably foul-smelling, degenerate gambler and junk dealer on the planet Tatooine. If he was human, he'd look like the kind of man that goes to fertility clinics to meet girls that can't get pregnant. There's nothing inherently wrong with that sentence, it's a pretty accurate description that could also be applied to anyone who lives in Vegas. The issue arises when you realise that he's financially prudent, and looks like this:

It's the nose, in case you hadn't noticed. Although it's more like a fucking proboscis.

If you're immediate reaction wasn't 'holy shit! The work of Lucas Arts, a massively successful studio, has racist undertones?' Then you're probably Walt Disney's daughter. His (damn near) first line in the Phantom Menace is: 'mind tricks don't work on me, only money'. I mean, that's not a subtle reference to the state of the economy or anything, nothing has ever meant one thing as hard as that. His race just goshdarn loves money. Make up your own mind about that, Internet, but the existence of Watto concerns me, if only because if it wasn't intentional, then none of the hundreds of people who animated, voiced, edited or directed this character noticed or had the minerals to mention it. Or that Ja-Ja Binks acts like a panicking Rastafarian, or that the Sand People are fucking called Sand People. 


Hayden Christensen

Let me tell you of the hatred I have for Hayden Christensen. My hatred is so vivid, so real, that I can taste it on my tongue when I speak of it, and feel a burning itch in my fingertips as I type. It boils in my gut like someone filled it with Pepsi and Mentos and thrashes in my head like a Rancor got trapped on an electric fence. And I earned this hatred. Earned it by forcing myself to watch him flounce around the screen, whining about how terribly unappreciated he is, even after he's knocked up Natalie Portman. And fuck you too for that, Lucas. Zookeepers use the love scenes in Episode 2 to get the monkeys to stop fucking. Rapists watch them and understand what they've done. Hayden Christensen is such a pussy that when he goes to the hairdressers, they charge him for a bikini wax. His motivation for every scene was: 'OK Hayden! Your morning sickness medication just arrived and they spelled your name wrong on the prescription. Aaaaannnnnd... GO!' Everything about every second of his performance in Attack of the Clones and especially Revenge of the Sith is wrong. He could read out Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream speech and the audience would think it was the instructions on a box of tampons.

***

William cannot fucking believe how much he hates Hayden Christensen. You can follow his 'movements' on Twitter or make him feel awkward on Facebook.

Tiny Men In Tights Refuse To Turn Up For Work

Jockeys across the country have decided to go on strike on Monday after the British Horseracing Authority instigated new rules that halved the number of times the riders were allowed to whip their horses during a race. God's little punchlines were outraged by the ruling, complaining that if they were to be penalised for disciplining unruly horses, then the animals might start to take advantage of the lenience, and start smoking or taking drugs or something.

Vertically-challenged athlete Rudy Welsh had this to say on the matter, 'the whip review is ridiculous. They [the BHA] knew we were struggling to keep the horses under control, if you give these beasts an inch they'll certainly take a mile. Personally, I think this is the thin end of the wedge. Before you know it, all the prize ponies will be having unprotected sex or joining third parties and the worst thing is, all the supporters of racing will assume that we [the Professional Jockey's Association] are the ones responsible for the decline in the performance of the horses. Just because we can fit comfortably into most suitcases.'

Any societies or groups championing the ethical treatment of horses that might be out there have remained strangely quiet during this heated issue. Largely because their only advocates are frigid, controlling bitches who only actually care about unicorns.

It's been scientifically proven that everyone knows one of these saccharine-sweet, jumped-up 'philanthropists'. 

The BHA is committed to the whip review but is open to discussion with the striking jockeys in an effort to improve relations and give the little guys the impression that their role in the sport is important after last year's scare, when a select few trainers considered replacing human jockeys with those adorable wee monkeys with opposable thumbs. You know the ones I mean.

Hating Chris Brown now a waste of time

Nubile pop star Rihanna announced yesterday that disliking Chris Brown was 'taking up too much of my time'. The contrite oxygen thief Brown was sentenced to five years' probation and community service after he unloaded on his then-girlfriend's face in an act of manliness comparable to a 14-year-old throwing his controller at the wall after losing to his sister at Tekken.

But with Rihanna's tightening schedule she has made the questionable decision to spend less time fuming over her bitch-ex and more time being excited about his 'music'. In an interview with Esquire magazine she added that she found it incredible that he could (apparently) make a comeback considering the whole world was against him, what with beating your woman not having been socially acceptable since the 50s, and even then only once she gave you good reason, like overcooking the souffle.

Shortly after the attack, the internet, clearly concerned that domestic violence wasn't hilarious enough, coined the compound verb, to Chris Brown, which has now entered worldwide use as a synonym for striking someone with something. Which is saddening, considering far more brilliant equivalents like brain are diminishing.

The singer also made the news a few weeks ago after being told by the owner of the field she was filming a video in, to cover her shame. When asked if he knew who the screaming fuck he was talking to, the farmer replied that no, he did not, and when illuminated, apologised, that he hadn't recognised Rihanna without her bruises.

Judge Brands Independent Contractors 'Braindead Arse Candles'

GEOamey, a firm that provides for the transport of inmates and won a £900 million contract with the Ministry of Justice last month, has recently found out that all their vehicles are too tall to fit through court gates. At Winchester Crown Court for example, the roads accessing the entrance are being dug up to enable GEOamey's vans to fit under the arches.

The first recorded instance of a 'Bristol Crown Court Fail'

The problem has become so embarrassingly widespread that prisoners all over the country are being forced to walk the last hundred yards or so to their hearing. Convicted mugger Leighton Mintz-Harris has called the situation 'a farce', and finds it offensive that men of his calibre and social standing should be forced to travel on foot like common commuters.

In a far more brazen and therefore interesting statement, Judge Henry Lazenby called the entire contract 'a fuck-up of biblical proportions'. Continuing, 'it's unthinkable to assume that the British government's first choice of private firms in this, or in fact, any matter would be a pack of dribbling, braindead arse candles. It's like they didn't even check that the firm's vans were suitable. And it's not like the contract hinged on anything else, like their tea and coffee making facilities or something. But that can't be right. Can it?'

The Ministry of Justice's new plan as of this afternoon, to give inmates fixie bikes and a stern warning not to just piss off to the pub, has been lambasted on the basis that it's not 'financially viable'. 

Hope for British Comedy lingers on

Comedy fans across the globe put aside their differences yesterday afternoon and celebrated the news that Rowan Atkinson's abomination of a character and series, Mr Bean, would not make a misguided return to British television.

Scenes like this one have been common.

The Oxford-educated actor told Radio 1's Newsbeat that he wanted the character to remain, 'timeless' and it is certainly true, that Mr Bean stands as a tragically immortal testament to just how low a truly gifted comedian will stoop to please idiots. Idiots who would otherwise have been equally thrilled by jangling car keys.

Atkinson has come under fire repeatedly for Mr Bean ever since its conception. Predominantly by people who ardently believe that comedy should be derived from jokes, rather than lingering shots of an inanely grinning psychopath with special needs failing to understand how revolving doors work.

The announcement that we will never again be forced to watch Atkinson humiliate himself comes at a time shortly after the release of the suspiciously similar Johnny English sequel. Described as a 'spy spoof', the original Johnny English was a masterpiece of failed gags, soporific plotting and career-murdering performances from all involved. But experts have confirmed that it did little to tarnish Atkinson's reputation any further than the catastrophic opening night of Mr Bean's Holiday in 2007, which still stands as the quickest executed and largest mass suicide pact in history.

Scotland and the Catholic Church prove an unlikely Justice Team

In a surprisingly forward-thinking turn, the Catholic Church has publicly backed the Scottish government's new bill to crack down on abusive behaviour at football stadiums and in pubs. The so-called 'Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications' bill has left the nation that pioneered fried-food-induced cardiac arrest shocked, confused and sobered, relatively speaking. The exhumed corpse of famed American writer Dr Seuss labelled the bill, 'muddled, obscure and offensively difficult to pronounce' before an unforeseen gust of wind scattered his loosely-clustered atoms.

The confusion surrounding the remit has resulted from the Scottish government's limp-dicked refusal to specify what exactly constitutes 'offensive behaviour', but fears that the bill might impinge on the rights of the public to hold inoffensive opinions and express them were dismissed as, 'lame'.

Opposition to the plan is widespread, particularly among fans of football and casual violence, which, after the last census in Scotland, was estimated to be 105% of the population. Grounds for opposition arose after an independent study found that suppression of raucous behaviour at football matches interfered with the male Scots’ mating ritual. And when prompted, Professional Gutter-Warmer Wallace MacGregor complained that ‘it took all the fun out of the sport’.

Pictured: An eligible mate.

The Catholic Church’s involvement began after a super-secret meeting between the Bishop of Parsley and First Minister Salmon-ed. After several hours of bitter complaint at the moral state of the world, the two decided to be the heroes Scotland deserved. Their initial plans to solve the problem of football hooliganism by beating anyone in a Celtic shirt to within an inch of their lives while dressed in matching spandex, fell through after the Bishop realised his credit at Joker’s Masquerade had run out. He also took the opportunity to reiterate that the Church was still not cool with the whole ‘same sex marriage thing’.

Why The Harry Potter Films Would Have Been Immeasurably Improved By Obscenities

Swear words are terrible things. They allow uneducated people to display emotional sincerity without going to the trouble of learning how to read or spell. But sometimes they're a necessary evil. Ostensibly, for providing a bit of cathartic relief. Letting loose a steaming barrage of the kind of choice curses that would make a sailor blush at the bedpost you just stubbed your toe on, or the cruel, sadistic god that put the fucking thing there, is, without a doubt, really goddamn satisfying. Script writers don't know this. No Hollywood hack has made the connection between their grizzled, any-means-necessary action hero saying 'fuck', and anything other than: 'that sounds really cool'. Swear words are either thrown around film scripts like pills at post-movie-premiere coke parties or absent entirely.Why? For the goddamn kids. That's why. But kids love swearing too. Probably even more than us, considering it's slightly fresher comic territory to them. Not that I'm advocating screaming obscenely at toddlers in supermarkets, they've got parents to do that. What I am saying, is that we could do with a little more realism in our fantastical wizarding adventures. Harry Potter needed swearing. And seeing as J.K. Rowling is a regular reader of blogs written like Tyler The Creator trying to get himself fired from a modelling agency, I'm in a unique position to get a few changes made.

By book four, The Goblet of Fire, Harry Potter has so much unbridled testosterone swimming around his body (I'd like to see you find a private moment in the Gryffindor dormitory for a bit of me time) that he starts flying into random fits of pitiful, impotent rage. Mostly at his friends. Because he knew they wouldn't fight back? Alright, I'm not going to insinuate that Harry Potter was a pussy on top of all the other heretical things I'm about to say. The point is, Harry was sexually frustrated to a degree most of us with our internet connections and lockable bedrooms couldn't even begin to empathise with.

What? Like you'd do any different if you were magic. 

He's not alone in this, yet, amazingly, he's the only one who really seems to show any signs of the crushing impact of puberty. This would have been easy to overlook, and maybe it was the director's fault, but Daniel Radcliffe played 'angry Harry' like someone complaining to their pharmacist that the oral pill didn't clear up their thrush. You'd think that that would be reason enough to give Radcliffe the liberty to give Felton the occasional 'eat a dick, Malfoy, you're dad's in prison I'm sure he could give you a few pointers'. You'd also be equally justified in thinking that 'joking about your dead parents' has got to be one of the top three reasons to scream profanely at someone before hitting them with a spell that produces some kind of extinction-level event for faces.

In the books, Rowling instead opts for craven bullshit like 'Ron swore loudly'. Obviously, as a reader you're able to construe whatever foul vocabulary you like from that. But in the films, there's nothing. The occasional 'bloody hell', true, but that phrase hasn't offended anyone since people stopped using rocks as cutlery. And if you showed them one of the films to test it, they'd just assume your DVD-player was magic. When the most offensive thing you can possibly call someone is 'mudblood', a term referring to the questionable nature of one's ancestry, you're uncivil-vocabulary is going to be pretty limited. Swearing is the major social infraction that all children start making at varying ages, everywhere. Yet at Hogwarts it's all very well-mannered indeed.

Student misdemeanors at Hogwarts in general are ridiculous. As a pupil, you seem to have a choice between the most benign forms of rebellion, or, joining a not-exactly-secret, necromantic cult slash terrorist cell, whose only discernible goals are inconveniencing school children with unfortunate facial scarring and bringing back conical hoods.

Also, hating on minority species. Which does beg the question, are there disenfranchised wizards out there who only tolerate goblins because their food's good? Or centaurs because they're good at maths?

Hogwarts isn't an unbelievable institution because it teaches children at the ages when they are most impulsive and irresponsible how to blow holes in walls or rear flesh-eating potted plants, it's unbelievable because these children aren't dicks about it in any kind of way anyone could empathise with. Never, at any point during the seven books does Jay-Kay describe kids sneaking out to the Three Broomsticks with the vain hope that Aberforth won't I.D. them, or smoking wizard weed behind the broomstick sheds before Herbology. It's not like it would have been hard to get away with anything like that, the teaching faculty is quite obviously brain dead, let alone responsible. For example, when Gilderoy Lockhart says he got lucky with a ten, that means another Hogwarts teacher left a Year 7 unattended. They're also all perfectly happy allowing a school house that churned out every evil human being to ever menacingly wave a piece of wood to continue, unsupervised. The Sorting Hat, if anything, would actually have made policing the wizarding world easier, via a thorough screening test. The second that obnoxious piece of felt uttered the word 'Slytherin', whoever was under it could have been conveniently escorted into a side room and humanely destroyed. But no, at some point someone must have said: 'nah it's fine, they can't all turn out to be xenophobic serial killers, right?' That's one fucked up PTA meeting. Although in fairness to all those present at it, when deciding on a new Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher they did take the moral high ground and decide not to discriminate against the suspicious-looking applicant wearing a turban. Not that that worked out well in the end.

By this point, you must be saying to yourself, 'but Will, surely an esteemed scholar of pop culture such as yourself would know that there is a least one case of swearing, in the Deathly Hallows to be exact. When Mrs Weasley is fighting Bellatrix she screams - "not my daughter, you bitch!" Also, what was the relevance of the last paragraph?' Well you'd be right hypothetical reader, although why you waited this long to bring that up is a mystery to me. All I'm saying is it seems amazing to me that there wasn't at least one character, among Rowling's horde that was a little more down to earth. A teacher maybe, that had the testicular fortitude to pipe up with: 'Dumbledore look, shouldn't social services be dealing with this shit?' Or 'Jesus Hermione, even that stick up your arse has a stick up its arse. Don't you ever get tired of being a passive-aggressive bitch?'

I'm glad that it's Mrs Weasley who finally let's loose a fraction though, casting Julie Walters for the scene in the Deathly Hallows Part 2 was genius, even though when she was first brought onto the project no-one had any idea. She's so convincingly hostile, I'm not even convinced she's acting. I think they just repeated the line to her a few times and opened the door of her cage with a barge hook. I hope they had a good plan to get her back inside after filming though, there aren't enough tranquiliser darts in the Jurassic Park Big Game Hunt to bring down a Julie Walters after it's made a fresh kill.

***

Watch 200 pounds of wild animal savage Johnny Depp in drag, right here. 

GL3 Stat-Tracker: Fantasy Edition

My blog is the reason dogs can't see colours, if you email a link to it to someone you know, all their houseplants die and it will one day be used by a defense lawyer to clear my murderer's name. So Noni White, Paul Edwards, Mike Grocott and Jim Darrall, I can only apologise for this terrible violation of your privacy. But fuck it, it was funny at the time. 

***

Lady Whitebane, Warrior-Princess of the Upton Forest Clan

(Anona White)

Amazon

Weapons: Compound Bow, Poison Arrows, Convincing Arguments

Armour: Skimpy

Accuracy: Myopian

Driving Skill: Irrelevant

Rationality: Womanly

Special Ability: Exhaustively Pointing Out Your Faults

Egbor The Surprisingly Polite

(Paul Edwards)

Berserker

Weapons: Battle Axe, Claymore, Your Own Goddamn Severed Arm

Armour: Wicked Facial Hair, Apparently

Strength: Ridiculous

Agility: Glacial

Intestinal Fortitude: Blessed

Special Ability: Punching You In The Gut Until You Throw Up

Grocotian, Senior Book-Master

(Mike Grocott)

Librarian

Weapons: Really?

Armour: Hahahahaha!

Intelligence: Sagely

Wits: About Him

Repartees: Biting 

Special Ability: ...the Dewey-Decimal System... I guess?

Pius XII, Adjutant 1st Grade of the Oxfian War-Church

(James Darrall)

Cleric

Weapons: Twin Sabres, Catholic Guilt

Armour: Suspiciously Effective

Dexterity: Unsurpassed

Charisma: Self-Entitled

Luck: Absurd

Special Ability: Making Good Girls Go Bad

Alexander The Mysteriously Swaying At Two In The Afternoon

(William Franklin)

Rogue

Weapons: Rudimentary Explosives, Salty Language

Armour: Pointless

Constitution: Ox-Like

Charm: Rapey

Ethics: ...huh?

Special Ability: Vanishing (With All Your Mead & Maybe Your Daughter/Mother/Sister)

GL3 Stat-Tracker: FIFA 5-A-Side Edition

Anona White

Team Captain

Team Management: Draconian

Training Programs: Sadistic

Tactics: Scorched Earth

Opinions: Unshakable

Sportsmanship: Derisive

Taste in Men: Predatory

Paul Edwards

Striker/Oldfag

Endurance: Barbaric

Savagery: Savage

Passing: Inaccurate

Eyesight: Squinty

Family Guy Knowledge: Academic

Taste in Women: Marital

Mike Grocott

Runner/Ball Boy

Fitness: Impressive

Accessibility: Impaired

Personality: Judgmental

Opinions: Unfounded

Fashion Sense: Pun-based

Taste in Women: Ambitious

James Darrall

Centre Right/Blood Mage

Positioning: Implausible

Accessibility: Laughable

Vocabulary: Extensive

Reason: Confusing

General Knowledge: Unfair

Taste in Women: Exotic

William Franklin

Left Back (at the bar)

Weight: Considerable

Ball Skill: Nonexistent

Footwork: Hilarious

Attendance: Occasional

Music Taste: Better Than Yours

Blood Test Results: Medically Impossible

Virginal Hobbies! 6 Ways To Sabotage Your Chances of Ever Getting Laid Again.

It's been statistically proven that for every five normal, healthy human beings capable of fitting comfortably in society, there's one 'nerd'. The stereotype made famous by 80s High School films was the first place your mind went to when you read nerd I'm guessing. Well, I'm not exactly guessing, I inserted a peculiar breed of earwig into your brain a few weeks ago that gives me regular updates on your thought processes via Twitter. But the modern nerd is now a very different creature, some of whom are actually capable of not spending approximately 16 hours day getting repressed childhood memories beaten out of them by well-toned sports players in fetching knitted sweaters. Some have even found love! Granted among their own kind, but I'm not here to help you fledging nerd-sacs relieve yourselves of your collective virginities, that's a job for roofies and Furry conventions. No, as ever, I serve a higher purpose. Namely, aiding you in maintaining your perennial loneliness. Hell, I refuse to be the only one.

***

Play Videogames!
Casual interest in anything is fine, but it seems the second a hobby starts to take up more than 2 hours of your life a day and 3 hours of what would have been time to devoted to masturbation at night, it's suddenly a socially reprehensible thing to be doing. It rarely even matters what that hobby is, everyone likes music for example, but when you accidentally let slip that you own one of Damon Albarn's teeth or have a near academic knowledge of Eminem's daughter's school timetable in conversation, you've all of a sudden got less chance of putting your dick in something living than a panda going through a mid-life crisis.

'I'm thinking of getting a Ferrari'

This actually includes videogames, or at least some of them. A passing interest in Call of Duty or FIFA is actually expected of most men. It proves you've got at least some hand-eye coordination which is (I'm told) something a human female looks for in a potential mate as opposed to conducting foreplay like a quadriplegic disarming a nuclear bomb by candlelight. Getting a World of Warcraft subscription would probably do the trick, but actually maintaining it is a searing pain in the balls.

Collect something!
Ritually hording items of little or no value to the rest of the world is a pretty sure-fire way to announce that you've never felt the warmth of a woman's touch. But naturally, the extent of your alientation is going to depend entirely on what exactly it is you're collecting. In this case it's got to be something pretty fucking lame, like coins or stamps or sweaty tennis towels. In the interest of your privacy, you don't want to be lining the walls of your habitat with hookers' fingers or photos of your local primary school. There's an un-widely known bylaw that allows the Police to skip past the requirement of a warrant to search your premises for dead bodies and the like if you're found with trophies like that. And I'm pretty certain you don't want anyone poking around you're basement unless they're tied up in there. Obviously, you also don't want to be hoarding awesome things like Superbowl rings or v-plates either.

Study Mathematics!
If you're a student of mathematics, I would just skip to the next entry right now, because everything I'm about to say is going to make you seriously rethink your life. And I don't want to be responsible for yet another young suicide. Not out of any ethical consideration, it's just that I get tired of tabloid reporters hassling me for interview time. Trust me, that gets pretty fucking tiresome after the 3rd or 4th instance. Also, Maths students can be quite useful for fixing my laptop, which isn't so much true as it's just a shallow, transparent excuse for me to include this picture:

There's a point at which even someone like me, who looks like a zeppelin painted a pasty flesh colour and then partially deflated  (although I do tend to explode less when I take a drunken nose-dive) can attract a female. But that's because a natural talent for 'spontaneous' eloquent wit so razor sharp I haven't needed to shave in 8 years just about makes up for a lifetime of alcohol and pop tart abuse. And also because I despise mathematics. The things I did to my textbook back in Secondary School should count among humanity's most terrible hate crimes, yet there are people out there who willingly sign themselves up to study it.

There's never been a more nerdtastic subject in the history of human thought. Early Man may have kept tallies of how many times he'd slept with his neighbour's wife three caves over but you can bet your ass he didn't fucking enjoy it. And every time I meet a maths student who isn't a maudlin wreck counting down the days until their bourbon and sleeping pills get delivered I become a little more certain that the world is categorically, batshit insane. All I'm saying is, taking up maths as a hobby is probably the most reliable way of ensuring you'll never sleep with me. [FUN FACT! 5 minutes after this article was posted, applications to maths courses went up 600% nationwide.]

High Fantasy!
If there's one most effective way to attract the derision of every woman in your immediate vicinity and inspire every man to charge blindly in your general direction and try to kill you with whatever they're holding, it's enjoying fantasy. Fantasy novels, videogames or films fill human males with the kind of Viking Warrior Bloodlust you'd only otherwise see at Tesco when the cashier gives Chris Brown the wrong change. More than any other interest on this list, fantasy can be combined with other virginal pursuits for double, or even triple forced-abstinence bonuses! Take your average role-playing-videogame and throw in some compulsive loot collecting and a few mentally-crippling statistical calculations and you've got a one-hit KO to your junk. After all, if your not going to use it, why let it waste space in your inventory?

Watch Sci-Fi!
Knowing literally anything more about Star Wars than, didn't Family Guy do something with it? Is enough to mark you out as socially inept to a degree that modern science is still unable to equal. For example, consider the following: if I said that you're mother's so fat Obi-Wan Kenobi thought she was a moon and you thought that was funny, congratulations, you just became a curse on the human gene pool.

Sorry, I meant to say Moby-Wan Kenobi

Not only is admitting your sci-fi-fandom in public as dangerous as fantasy, it's somehow, even more humiliating. The last time I saw someone accidentally announce they loved Firefly, it was more awkward than the last time your parents let slip your middle name was nearly Broken-Condom. I don't know why this is, maybe it's the fact that most sci-fi heroes are sculpted, lycra-sporting lotharios, constantly bedding sexy alien women with (you would assume) conveniently humanoid genitalia. A far cry from standard fantasy tropes, which usually involve little more than a chastened princess and the odd lusty bar-wench. Which might explain how hilarious it is that greasy virgins the world over hold William Shatner up as the pinnacle of sexual masculinity, when clearly they think the g-spot is some kind of weak spot in a Boss' defenses. Although, that's actually pretty on the money now that I think on it, the trick is to stun it with an arrow first before going for the sword swing.

Samuel Lear: Just The Facts

Samuel Lear is the erstwhile Editor-in-Chief of Redbrick, the University of Birmingham's student newspaper. In return for the stellar work he's done in the past year, I've decided to immortalise him in the only way I know how. No holds barred, Pulitzer-worthy, face-punching journalism! I proudly! But apologetically, present: Samuel Lear's Man-Facts!

***

Samuel Lear writes 200-character tweets and Twitter doesn't fucking dare stop him.

Irony cannot define Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear once got an iPad pregnant because millions of years of evolution weren't looking.

Being editor has a few privileges. Being Samuel Lear has all the privileges. 

Samuel Lear's regal nature actually echoes back through time, inspiring Shakespeare when he was on a really sweet opium trip.

Samuel Lear has a book containing over 2000 personal pick-up lines. But the use of any by anyone not medically classified as Samuel Lear will increase the sale of rape alarms by 400% nationwide.

... ladies.

The sun cannot look directly at Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear's CV is just a mugshot of himself attached to his Criminal Record. I'd like to see the Editor that doesn't fucking hire him.

Every single time Samuel Lear cracks a joke, the corpse of Bill Hicks shoots its hand up for a high five.

Samuel Lear's headlines are so manly, just reading one will make a woman limp for days.

When you're tired of respecting Samuel Lear, you're tired of not living in constant, agonising pain.

The secrets to true happiness, man's existence and to beating Mike Tyson's Punch Out came to Samuel Lear in a dream. Unfortunately, he forgot them in another dream.

This game was just ludicrously racist. I mean, Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's racist.

Samuel Lear framed Roger Rabbit.

If you're reading this in the dark, Samuel Lear is standing behind you right goddamn now.

Samuel Lear has never once called tech support. His laptop is simply too afraid of him to break.

In 1925, Parliament passed a law preventing Samuel Lear from ever taking part in a game of Trivial Pursuit. Because he always won in like 6 moves, it was just unfair to everyone else.

Samuel Lear sleeps with both eyes and the Guardian open.

Samuel Lear is so sexually charged, his erection can only point towards magnetic north.

Saying Samuel Lear's real name out loud will open a portal t- Christ! I just said it! Why?! Why can't I type in my head?! I can't help loving the sound of my own voice! God forgive me! My hubris has doomed us all!

No 'journalists' were harmed in the writing of this article. Well, not many anyway.

Whaling Under The Influence: A Drunk's Guide To Negotiating Sex With Fat Chicks

Do you crave companionship? Do you feel you say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time? Do you want to jam your dick in a woman that could be confused for a manatee, even by a shark? God's only creation known to boast Olympic Golds in Whale Detection and Murder? [While we're on the subject, seriously, fuck sharks. Why don't people realise they're the Creator's way of saying: "See, this is why I gave you legs. Stay the fuck out of my oceans." Makes you wonder what he's keeping out there. Meth lab probably, how else do you explain Australia?] Anyway, if so, are you in luck! Let's be honest though, you're toasted, you need to get this thing done quick before irreversible chromosomal damage or worse, whiskey dick. To hell with what Science or Religion might say! Those prudish fucks don't know how to have fun anyway! You my friend, are getting laid tonight!

***

You've probably heard that statistically, as a nation, fuck - as a species, we're getting fatter. But actually finding a woman that you could lose your phone, wallet and keys in is pretty tough. Large women rarely congregate. They're like Will Smith in that film, except instead of drinking scotch in the street and generally acting like a bitchy queen, they do something meaningful with their lives. Like gargling your balls for a packet of Iced Gems. HANCOCK. That was the film. Seriously, the only thing that could have stopped that movie sucking harder than a Dyson somehow engineered with pornstar DNA, would have been Charlize Theron taking her bra off. Seriously, has Will Smith ever been involved in anything more shameful?

Oh, right.

Even in crowded rooms fat chicks have a knack for blending in (it's a vestigial behaviour from back when they needed to to camouflage themselves in packs of cave-men in order to hunt). A neat trick is to scatter a handful of small objects into the air (carpet tacks usually work well) and see if a prime specimen's gravitational field draws them into orbit. Once you've picked out your chosen cetacean, wade through the school of ladies to reach it - they have a symbiotic relationship, like those birds that clean crocodile teeth for amnesty from a swift, violent death. A lot like that now that I think about it.

How's your gag reflex?

The plus size woman is a notoriously elusive creature, prone to random, crippling attacks of paranoia and easily spooked by strange objects like salad forks and penises. Despite this, they have surprisingly short attention spans, so if you don't keep one constantly focused and engaged, they may forget who you are or wander off into traffic. For that reason it's important to bring a large supply of Ritalin, but disguise them as raisins. Like pheasants, fat chicks go wild for raisins [NB: if you got that reference, congratulations on having a successful and rewarding childhood]. I've also found a lot of success baiting bear traps with take out Wagamamas.

It's unlikely that you'd have to talk to the creature, in our early stages of evolution, we were too busy doing awesome shit like killing mammoths with sharp rocks, or carving rudimentary pornography on cave walls to invent ear muffs. Naturally, God stepped in (like the gentleman that he clearly is) and fixed things so that the first place you put weight on is the subcutaneous tissue of the inner ear. Obviously, the kind of girl you're looking for thinks exercise is an archaic form of masturbation. Which is fine, only she couldn't find her G-spot with an oil rig and 2 rows of flood lights. So she hasn't heard anything clearly since her GP told her that 25% of her blood was butter when she was in primary school. If you're going to say anything, remember to focus on a point somewhere above her head so you're not speaking directly into her face, you wouldn't want her to mistake all the tequila on your breath for halitosis. Not that she would know what that is.

Knowing what this abomination is would also prove you had a more literary childhood than me.  

It gets pretty simple from here, just slip the bitch some roofies (disguised as raisins remember) and chaperon it back to your godawful apartment or whatever hovel you're currently living/squatting in. Now you've just got to get busy, gettin' busy. Mixing food with fat sex is a logical fallacy. But nothing is more awesome than fat sex, so if you try to mix it with anything else, no matter how awesome that thing might be (gin, LSD, videogames, whatever) you are diluting fat sex. However, it is also dangerous, common injuries include: crushed pelvis, punctured lung and catastrophic internal haemorrhaging. Therefore, it is vitally important to agree on a safe word or phrase that could not be confused for the conventional pillow talk/smack talk/screams of horror that usually accompany intercourse. Some examples of what not to use are below:

'I... I can't breathe'


'You sure have a lot of orifices'


'OH GOD! MY BONES!'

Something Else That Isn't An Essay

I feel like I should apologise to those of you who read yesterday's post who didn't have a near-academic knowledge of Pokemon but I'm sure you can empathise. When you have a deadline towering over you it's natural that you'd turn to something your mind naturally drifts to when looking for another way to occupy your time. On that note, here are ten other things I'd rather do than work.

***

10. Spend 10 minutes on the phone to any company's customer assistance department.

9. Co-write a screenplay with M. Night Shyamalan.

8. Lunge wildly at the Pope.

Look at him. He's just begging you to do it.

7. Slap-box a lion wearing Lady Gaga's meat costume.

6. Drink 'responsibly'.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.

5. Furiously defecate on the White House lawn. Dressed like a ghost.

4. Do jumping jacks on a prayer mat, stopping every 30 seconds to call Allah a pussy.

3. Put my dick in a blender. Or Ke$ha.

2. Be violently sodomised by a prison inmate named Scrunchie.

You want to know how he got the name? So does he.

1. Get punched in the testicles by Martha Stewart. Just because there's the added horror that when she finishes, she'd lean down and whisper: 'your genitals are now a rippling puddle between your legs, it's a good thing.'